


Scientists Document This Stuff

by wangler



Series: Demanding Forever [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: kink_bingo, First Time, Humor, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attack, Romance, Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/pseuds/wangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your arbitrary sex rules are getting really old," Stiles says, lipping at Derek's mouth like a goat at a petting zoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scientists Document This Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery notes on panic attack warning if you need clarification:
> 
> I put a warning for panic attack, but it's really more of a warning for general anxiety because Stiles doesn't quite get to full on panic attack. It's from Derek's POV and Derek doesn't have a clear grip on what's going on.

They're kissing in Stiles' bed, touching their tongues together lazily like they're just learning how to do it, when Stiles shifts and grinds his thigh against Derek's cock.

"Stiles," Derek says with a growl.

"Is that warning or an oooo, please keep going?"

"It's a warning." Derek takes Stiles by the hips and keeps him still. "Don't."

"Your arbitrary sex rules are getting really old," Stiles says, lipping at Derek's mouth like a goat at a petting zoo. "I hate them. There, I said it."

"I'm not going to take advantage of you," Derek says. It causes him physical pain to say it, because taking advantage of Stiles, hard, is nearly all he can think about it lately. He's certain that a good fuck would clear his head, but now that he's soaked in Stiles he can't bring himself to fuck anyone else. The werewolf demands monogamy. Even if it's monogamous makeouts with a high school student.

"Right, because my dude-virginity is sacred and you're a supposed grown-up and you don't think I can make decisions about my own boner."

Derek blows on Stiles' face -- one forceful, gusty blast to get his attention and shut him up. It works on kittens. And on Stiles. "You don't know what you're getting into," Derek says.

No one knows what they're getting into at sixteen. Derek doesn't want Stiles to learn the lessons he learned at that age.

"I don't think dry-humping a socially awkward alpha werewolf is any worse than any of the other werewolf-related situations I've already gotten myself into. With limited consent, half the time, I might add," Stiles says. He squirms and manages to get his crotch against Derek. "This? Is consent. Right here in my pants."

Stiles doesn't feel like a boy; he feels like a man.

"I'm not socially awkward," Derek says, frowning. His frown deepens like a cramp at his forehead when he watches Stiles' face transform with poorly-concealed glee. Likely over getting Derek to respond to his stupid insult.

"You're kind of awkward, dude," Stiles says apologetically. "But your, uh, other things make up for it most of the time."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Derek can't tell if he's offended or just annoyed to be doing something other than claiming Stiles' big, irritating mouth with the scant time they have alone together.

The pack can smell Stiles on him, but they're not ready to witness open affection. They're too fresh and needy. They'll see Stiles as competition and Derek already has enough drama to deal with.

The only time Derek and Stiles have been... obvious... together was after Derek took a handful of bullets from a rogue Hunter. When the forest went silent and the pack surrounded Derek, whining and sniffing for hurt, Stiles shouldered past them and kissed Derek and punched him in the ribs at the same time.

Stiles stalked away after that, agitation rolling off him in pungent waves. Scott followed him, glancing over his shoulder at Derek and mouthing, "What the fuck?"

The others had just enough sense of self-preservation not to ask questions. Not that night, anyway.

Since then, Erica's started referring to Stiles as Derek's boyfriend (the sound of her voice bitter and brittle), and Isaac rolls his eyes calls Stiles "mother" (and inexplicably obeys him), and Boyd gives Derek the same silently dubious look he gives him every time he questions Derek's authority -- which is often.

That's why Derek's sneaking into Stiles' bedroom at night like he's courting a preacher's daughter. Or a Hunter's kid. Fuck, he's acting like Scott.

This is not good.

"You're charming in a lecherous kind of way when you want to be," Stiles is saying, "and you're good at being alpha-y most of the time, but you're not exactly student council material."

"Not limited to the fact that I graduated from high school six years ago?" Derek asks.

"Well, okay. Bad analogy. It's just... you're really controlled. The wolf isn't..." Stiles' gaze darts back and forth tightly, seeking something in Derek's eyes. "A thing. Like with Scott. So it's weird and awkward that you were living like a hobbit out in the woods and your idea of a den is like something Spike decorated after a murder spree."

"Hobbits live in very nice houses, and you're mixing references."

"Oh my God. Are hobbits real?" Stiles asks, exaggerating a bug-eyed look. "Tell me you know one."

"My dad read The Hobbit to me when I was a kid," Derek says. "Would you like to make this conversation any less sexy? We can go over your report card if you want."

Stiles shifts his hips and grimaces. "You're right. I've been demoted to half-chub." He blinks. "You did this! You're trying to distract me from convincing you that we should... do stuff."

"Do stuff. When you put it like that, how can I resist?" Derek asks, glaring.

"Damn it," Stiles says.

***

 

It takes exactly five more days for Stiles to wear Derek down and less than two minutes for them both to get off like -- well, like teenagers.

Twice.

"This is so awesome," Stiles says, breathless and sweaty.

Derek's nostrils flare as he inhales the sharp, mouthwatering scent of Stiles' spunk under the perfumed aroma of Stiles' freshly-laundered jeans. Stiles is still working his hips slowly, echoing the frantic rubbing that got him off as they kissed so hard it left a rosy rash around Stiles' mouth.

"Wait, it was awesome, right?" Stiles asks, when Derek doesn't respond. He has two mismatched splotches on his cheeks, like he's been slapped.

Derek takes him by the back of the neck and wrenches him into a kiss.

"Ow," Stiles says. It's a taste more than a sound, barely more than a happy groan in Derek's mouth.

***

 

"Oh man, let's do that again," Stiles says the next week.

Derek stares at him, pained.

"What?" Stiles asks, shrugging. "I'm sixteen."

"Well, I'm not."

"But you're a werewolf. Your dick is basically superpowered."

"My dick is basically chafed, Stiles."

They've been rubbing off against each other so often Derek is starting to have dreams about trying to start a fire with two sticks. Sometimes the dreams involve Stiles in a scouting uniform and this has got to stop. If cooties actually existed, they'd be personified by Derek's insatiable sex maniac teenage boyfriend.

"Mine's not," Stiles says, pouting and demonstrating by stroking himself vigorously. He has long fingers, and they curve gracefully around the blood-pink skin of his dick.

They've graduated to rubbing bare skin together, and Derek has evidently graduated to considering Stiles his boyfriend. At least in his own private, meandering considerations of their relationship. It's getting dangerous.

(When they rock together, the friction sweet, Derek grips Stiles' ass, his fingers just inches from Stiles' hole. He wants him so bad it makes his mouth taste like blood.)

"I can see that. And I'm pretty sure you know how to handle it yourself," Derek says, rolling off the bed to get dressed. He needs to run. He needs to run for hours until he sweats out the lust coursing through him like poison.

"Yeah," Stiles says, pulling his comforter up over his lap. He's hurt and confused and Derek can't stop to fix it. He can't stop. He has to go.

***

 

"You can, you can, you can do it," Stiles babbles, rolling in Derek's arms. He's drenched in sweat and he's so horny he can't keep still. Stiles may be far from a werewolf, but his instincts are taking over; Derek can feel the need shaking through him.

"Can what? Tell me," Derek says, flattening his palms to let Stiles' fever-hot skin slide against them as Stiles moves, mindlessly seeking the touch he needs.

"God damn it, Derek. Just. You know what I want."

"I want you to tell me."

"Because you're a dick," Stiles says with a hissed breath.

"I can do this all day," Derek says. That isn't true, but Stiles is too lost in his own desire to see that Derek's trembling and leaking pre-come and biting his cheek to keep from grinding against Stiles' body and letting go.

"I want you to fuck me." Stiles sounds like he's clawing the words out of his chest. He flushes more and hides his face at Derek's throat. "I really, really, really want to."

Derek places his hand against Stiles' ass. "Yeah?"

"Yes. God. There. Do you need me to doodle it for you? I'm kind of an expert at sex pictures. Have you seen my biology textbook?"

"You're not an expert at this."

"I'm a super quick study."

Derek pushes up onto his knees and turns Stiles over gently, easing him up onto his elbows and knees. His ability to make conscious, responsible decisions is gone.

It's nearly impossible to look at Stiles like this. It aches. When Stiles' thighs part, he's exposed -- from the pinkness of his hole to the tight clutch of his balls. He has a beautiful, muscular back dotted with dark freckles. He's hairier than Derek expected.

He's shivering.

"How do you feel?" Derek asks, reaching between Stiles' legs to tug his dick a few times.

"Why are you asking? I know you can tell," Stiles says, his voice muffled against his skin as he shifts around as if trying to find a comfortable way to rest his face in his arms.

"You're aroused and you're... nervous." Derek cups Stiles' balls and rolls them gently.

"Bingo. You get a Scoobie Snack," Stiles says, strained.

There are no less than four bottles of lotion within reach. Derek picks the unscented one and squirts some onto his fingers. "I'm going to use my fingers first."

"What? Oh my God. What if you pop a claw?"

"Pop a claw? What do you mean, like Wolverine?"

"Yes! Exactly like that. Do you think he runs around fingering people? No. Because he has giant fuckoff claws."

Derek sighs and smacks Stiles' hip lightly until Stiles turns his head to look back at him. He shows Stiles his claws. "Do these look like adamantium to you?"

It's a little obscene how broadly Stiles grins. A happy flush spreads across his cheeks and it takes Derek a moment to realize it's some sort of genuine nerdgasm.

"They still look sharp," Stiles says. The grin fades as he licks his lips. "Do you first."

"Excuse me?"

"Do your -- I don't know. This is hard! Don't make me dirty talk."

"I don't want you to dirty talk. I want you to make sense."

"Put your -- oh God. The claws, not claws, fingers. In, you know, you, first."

"What would that accomplish?" Derek asks. A wave of lust startles through him.

"Trust," Stiles says, his eyes wide. The expression is so earnest, so honest, that Derek has no choice but to sigh heavily and turn his body to the side so that Stiles can see what he's doing.

"Look, I'm not impaling myself," Derek says, his thighs shuddering as he pushes two fingers in. He lets his eyes slip closed. He's done this before, but it's been a while, and the burn of it rockets a hot thrill up his spine. Even though he can feel Stiles moving, it still makes him tense as Stiles kneels up against him and covers Derek's hand in his own to feel the tight stretch of Derek's hole around Derek's fingers.

"Oh my God," Stiles says. "Derek."

Derek comes first, swearing, and Stiles follows soon afterwards, rubbing against Derek's ass and whining.

"Oops," Stiles says, sneaking another feel at Derek's hole like he thinks Derek's not going to notice.

They don't have sex.

***

 

The next Monday, Stiles shows up at the warehouse den and says, "I want to sleep here."

Stiles has a backpack and a sleeping bag and Derek rolls his eyes and points to the rail car he's taken over. Most nights, Derek sleeps next to Isaac, and Erica and Boyd when they're there, on two mattresses pushed together on the concrete floor. But when he needs to be alone, the rail car is his own.

It's dusty and nearly bare inside. Stiles walks right up to the pile of musty blankets in the corner and drops the backpack and sleeping bag and looks up at Derek with a shy, excited sort of smile that takes Derek's breath away. He remembers being that age. Having a crush.

(This is probably a crush. Stiles is a teenager. There's no snarling wolf in him demanding forever.)

"Then go to sleep," Derek says. "I have things to do."

He turns away before he can see Stiles react, but he doesn't walk away fast enough to escape the scent of Stiles' shuttered disappointment. It smells like a wound.

He's hard on Isaac and Boyd that night. He's hard on the den. They'll have a mess to clean in the morning, but for now he trudges back to the rail car where Stiles has fallen asleep despite the sounds of breaking bodies and snapping wood.

Sleeping soundly, Stiles gives off a sense of peace that envelopes Derek like a sedative. Derek strips off his clothes and sinks to the old blankets to curl around Stiles' warm body. He feels content and complete and falls asleep listening to Stiles breathe with his mouth open.

Stiles jerks awake before dawn, his muted fear waking Derek in turn. It takes Derek a few blank, panting moments to remember where they are. By then, he's crouching over Stiles, bracketing him like a cage and growling softly.

"Derek?" Boyd calls from outside.

"It's fine," Derek answers quietly.

Shadowed, Stiles stares up at him. "Sorry. That happens sometimes."

"They can hear us," Derek reminds him.

Stiles shrugs.

Derek wants to be angry about it. He wants to worry and wonder what causes Stiles to wake with the bitterness of terror in his sweat. But Derek is tired and it feels heavy, like drowning, to know that he's played no small part in the complicated nature of Stiles Stilinski's life.

They're quiet as it happens. Maybe it's because the others are only a thin layer of rusted metal away from them, or maybe it's because it's six in the morning and the lingering night is dark and soft.

This is my favorite time, Derek thinks, in the skipped-record way his thoughts scatter when he feels good. And he feels so good with Stiles' hot mouth on him, drawing him in and sucking, tentative at first and then harder, more confident with every pull. Derek rubs the back of Stiles' head, kneading and petting the soft fuzz of his short hair.

Stiles has a condom and lube -- real lube, not lotion -- in his backpack. When he pushes them into Derek's hand, Derek gives him a look, and that's the closest they come to communicating outside of nipping kisses and eager grasps.

Derek turns Stiles onto his back and kisses him as he fingers him. He catches Stiles' low, surprised sounds and swallows them. Stiles' heart beats faster at the crinkling sound of the condom, but he's more excited than nervous now, as if lingering sleep has taken the edge off. Derek presses his forehead against Stiles' and breathes with him, slow and easy, as he fucks into him the first time.

"Ah," Stiles exhales, shifting his legs. Derek pauses, letting Stiles' body ease around him. When Stiles gives a tight nod, Derek moves his hips. It's not great at first. It's a stuttering slide and pull until Stiles drops his head back and sighs happily and it becomes something else. Something perfect.

Knowing he's falling, Derek fucks Stiles like he's bracing himself for the impact. He draws it out as long as he can, until he's groaning on every breath and his shoulders are tight and Stiles is loose and humming beneath him.

He lets his weight sink against Stiles after he comes.

Stiles' heart beats and it's more than a sound; it's a hollow drumming that rocks through Derek's chest.

"Sticky," Stiles mumbles.

"Wait," Derek says, pulling out to the sound of Stiles' quiet wince.

Tender and careful, Derek strokes Stiles' body where he fucked him. He licks and noses at Stiles' half-hard dick until it's rigid and then sucks him off while Stiles pulls his hair and whimpers and comes with a barked little shout.

Messy and sweaty, they sleep again, and don't rise until Isaac stands in the doorway, clearing his throat and keeping his eyes lowered.

"We need a ride to school," Isaac says, before he turns his back to them and waits.

"I got it, just gimme a sec," Stiles says. He's naked and wearing half a dozen livid hickies on his torso.

Stiles untangles himself from the blankets and gets dressed quietly, glancing at Isaac's back. With each moment Stiles is awake, his movements become jerkier, until anxiety buzzes around him like flies. Derek stands, and Stiles flinches.

"Stiles," Derek says, catching his wrist.

"Hey, no, it's fine. Right? I mean, it's fine. It's not -- life-ruining weird. It's cool, I'm gonna, pants. And school. Harris is gonna have my ass if I'm late again."

"It was just sex," Derek says, trying to be comforting since it seems like Stiles is trying to have some kind of remorseful meltdown.

Stiles' gaze jerks up and he nods like a puppet. "Yeah I know. Of course it was. I was there. Sex, you know. It's a thing. People do. I did. We did. It's fine."

It's not fine at all. Stiles' body is giving off distress signals. It's potent enough to put Derek on alert, as much as he knows there's no real danger. Derek can feel Boyd and Isaac responding, too.

Derek throws Isaac his keys. "I will rip your spleen out if you're not back here fifteen minutes after dismissal."

"I can totally drive him, dude," Stiles says, half-dressed and still wearing Derek's grip like a bracelet. He watches Isaac walk away. His breathing is all wrong, like he's injured.

Derek waits for the roar of his engine outside. When the den is empty of any heartbeats but his own and Stiles', he drags Stiles back down into the nest of blankets on the floor.

"I guess I can cross truancy off my bucket list," Stiles says. His skin is cold, and Derek rubs him briskly.

"Tardiness," Derek says, wrapping his legs around Stiles. He's not sure what to do to make this better, so he does the things that would make him feel good. He touches Stiles and holds him and brushes his lips against Stiles' soft morning stubble. "I'll let you go when you're safe to drive."

"Last time I checked, sex didn't interfere with motor skills."

"Stiles," Derek says, letting him hear the exasperation in his voice.

Stiles puts his head down on Derek's shoulder and sighs shakily. It takes ten minutes for his muscles to start to ease, the gentle spasms letting up with each controlled breath he takes.

"I didn't think it would matter," Stiles says very quietly.

Derek hasn't stopped rubbing Stiles' back with slow circles. He doesn't say anything, and as the silence stretches, Stiles continues. "I mean it doesn't, really. It's a totally normal biological thing. Even for same-sex animal... friends. I found this book online with gay monkeys and dolphins and shit. Scientists document this stuff. Like for a job."

"It wasn't just sex," Derek says, mostly to save himself from a rambling dissertation on homosexuality in the wild.

Except not really. Not at all.

It's a confession.

Stiles exhales heavily, his relief sweet. "Oh. Good."


End file.
